All Fall Down
by SurreptitiousFox245
Summary: The Aether had collapsed. Mundus was forever warped. Nirn had been desecrated before your very eyes, and Existence left in shambles. Finding yourself displaced after an incident that should've ended your life, you begin to piece together the puzzle linking a small clan of elves and the faction that had tried to transcend mortality. WARNINGS: blood, violence. 2nd person POV
1. Prologue

_**All Fall Down**_

By: SurreptitiousFox245

Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Age or The Elder Scrolls. All rights go towards BioWare, Bethesda Games, Zenimax, and Michael Kirkbride (because, let's face it, most of the ES lore I'm using is based off of Kirkbride's work, so I'm going to give credit where credit is due).

Quick Author's Note: Some of you might recognize this from an Elder Scrolls/Lord of the Rings crossover by the same name. I had the prologue up, but when I was writing the first chapter, I realized that this fit much better as an ES/Dragon Age crossover. I changed it around accordingly, removing any LotR aspects and replacing them with Dragon Age. The lore meshed a bit better. Sorry if that's inconvenient, but I frankly don't care. Don't like it, don't read. Simplicity at its finest. Otherwise, ENJOY.

* * *

"_So look in my eyes, what will you leave behind once you've gone? (so precious)_  
_You got what you came for now I think it's time to move on (when will you say)_  
_But these ghosts come alive like water and wine _  
_Walk through these streets singing songs and carrying signs, _  
_To them these streets belong_"

~Rise Against "_To Them These Streets Belong_"

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_Prologue: The End of the Beginning_

**_Nirn - 4E 202_**

* * *

**Quickly, you had learned** to hate despair. Just the word echoing through the recesses of your subconscious sent shivers running along your spine in a manner less than pleasant, and you supposed you had nothing but the jeering sportsmanship of the crowd to thank for that. Calls, cries, and whistles – all in favor of the fate you had only been condemned to hours prior nearly made you falter in your gait, but dutifully you restrained. The final moments of any life being remembered as spent in fearful weakness was something neither you, nor anyone else in the same predicament would've found appealing. And so it was that fright was an emotion you would not display. Confidence, acceptance, perchance even regret; these were…_acceptable_, if nothing else. Abhorrence, dismay, anxiety, maybe _guilt_; those most certainly were _nothing_ of the kindred sort.

You thought you saw her – there! – lost in the crowd, a shock of loose charcoal hair and muggy crimson eyes set slightly more than a head shorter than the surrounding occupancy. You concluded hurriedly not a moment later that you were hallucinating, probably, when the image was replaced with the towering, braided blond hair and shocking gilt skin common to the monastery's newest inhabitants. Dehydration tended to do such things, and the fever burning behind your eyes had never been more palpable against the frigid wind blustering across the icy plateau than it was in that moment.

Then again, maybe that intensity, too, was nothing more than an illusion.

Thick, meaty hands held your upper arms in painful, vice-like grips that you thought redundant, merely an act for a show of control and superiority. The wrought iron chains clinging and clanging from your wrists and ankles restricted your easy range of motion quite nicely. The shock features nullified it entirely as the burns spider-webbing around your wrists and twinging hands evidenced. Even a fool would've been wise enough to know that escape was _impossible_, not merely _improbable_. Precaution of several armed guards was not necessary. Not in the least for the sake of practicality, and that in turn made it obvious that your public march was only for the grandiose purpose of instilling fear into a society too strong-willed to follow anything short of it. A statement that clearly said the new regime was not to be trifled with and their plans were not for outside meddling.

Its pain still shocked you out of a haze. They'd probably also drugged you, now that you could clearly process the thought that had been nagging at you for several days...or...was it weeks? Not that it mattered; lost time was the least of your concerns. You had failed. Simple, straight, and to the point, regardless of the fact that the little three word admittance stated so plainly cut deeper than any blade. This final walk towards the lackluster, axe-wielding visage clad in black appearing only to the dead caused you to inch further and further away from being able to deny such a reality of the end for yourself.

And a sad, _sad_ end was it, for a sad little hero who had only wanted to drown her sad sorrows in a sad mug of ale.

The rope was around your neck now, distracting you from the pile of large, inhumanly _draconic_ bones half-buried beneath the snow. You knew a hanging was not the intent, be it magical or material in method. The length of fiber had become a thing which reminded that you were being forced to _watch_, and the bones symbolized that even the strongest were not immune to time's inevitable morph into an abrupt, uncontrollable, _untamed_ end. A leash meant to mock that not only were you helpless and right where the bastards wanted you, but to represent that despite all your efforts and stubbornness to the contrary, you had still been nothing but their glorified, if not semi-uncontrolled, _pawn_ in the end. The shackles had been removed as you stood upon the makeshift platform, though the _damned_ rope remained. After all, why not make you see the end you'd fought so hard to prevent without obvious restraint? Make the victory seem all that much easier? Well, you knew one thing for certain – you would not let it be so simple for them.

Struggling against the thickly wound length of hemp fibers carefully, in your feverish state, only managed to allow you to do little more than squirm and let out a few pathetic mewls, but it was enough. Enough to show defiance, enough to show that maybe – just _maybe_ – all was not as lost as it seemed in those last few seconds where _someone_ could yet do _something_. If all you could further yourself to be for your withering cause was a symbol of hope, a flame, then so be it. It was better than nothing at all.

"We gather this council…" the words rang from the dark robed figure ignoring the minute struggle beside him, but you barely registered most of them. _Council_, you couldn't help thinking snidely? You hadn't even been given a trial, not that you'd expected one. There was no fairness for traitors. No fairness for the wicked, when in truth, those who were wicked were those who wielded the power, those with the ability to make an entire society see the reality through nothing but rose colored glasses of the thickest make. The encouragement and utter buoyancy of the gathered crowd seemed to increase with each indiscernible mutter, stammer, and stutter from the one who'd spoken, your fate sealed yet further with every syllable. It only solidified what pity for them you could still feel.

You locked with crimson eyes again in the thick, oceanic depths of gold.

"_I'm sorry!_" you screamed at the image that wasn't there, continuing to struggle against an unexplainable, mental _grip_, barely holding you, yet unimaginably tight in physical restraint, "_I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!_" Short stature and ashen skin was replaced again with soaring height and rich golden, and the phantom ceased. Barely, you registered that the pleading, while being formed from your chapped lips, did not vocalize above the roaring of the spectators. And it was then, in the chaotic finality of it all, that you realized there was no hope left. There never had been. _Hope _only amounted to an intangible thing existing with your pitiful self as nothing more than Fate's enticement to your being _Its_ pawn. You'd always been _fated_ to meet an end in that moment, and perhaps that was the biggest shame of it all – to die before you really had a chance to _live_.

There was a ritual starting, but you didn't care as the force of melancholy _despair_ that held you pulled you deeper and deeper, away from the pain, the grief, the fear, the guilt. It was nice, but at the same time you felt like you shouldn't have been succumbing to the _acceptance_. You should've been doing something, anything. A final act so that no one could claim that you didn't at least _try._

_It wasn't your fault, though_, that entity of misery whispered, murmured, and hummed enticingly, bidding you believe the finely fabricated lies of which it so cunningly spilled. At the same time, it screamed and scratched with an imagined air of daunting; the scraggly fingers of its influence were skittering and clawing their way methodically from your subconscious. _You could not control _Its_ decision any more than you could meddle with fate._

But you had, you wanted to scream. You _had_ touched fate, molded it to your whims and uses, and, more importantly, it had let you. What made this situation any different? Why hadn't you been able to the one time it had counted the most? Where was the fairness in that, the lack of applicable blame?

You had sunk to your knees now – pride and propriety be _damned_, this was the end of the gods' forsaken world as you knew it – and the mountain around you began to crumble, piece by frozen piece. Where there had been chanting earlier – a prayer, maybe? Though to whom you would never be able to discern – your ears were met with only awed silence, both Altmeri Justiciar and spectator alike as the earth of Nirn began to dissolve and the sky began to fall. Watching in terror like they'd wanted you to in the first place, you felt the pull becoming stronger (obviously something other than the hopelessness you had initially assumed it to be), and it only led you to ponder as an ethereal white began shining from Magnus, brighter than any you'd seen from the aptly named sun in your extensive elvish lifetime. Slowly, it webbed along the softer spots of luminescence where the Magne-Ge, the stars, would've lain had Lorkhan's halves darkened the heavens. Too obvious was the symbolism of why midday had been chosen for this act, and it wasn't lost on you that the whole situation was meant to be mystical and to make a bold, final statement. You were fading as the light spread farther and farther, becoming so blinding that it hurt even through the shielding of eyelids. Soon enough, that, too, faded into nothing until only the faintest wisp of consciousness remained.

You shouldn't have been fading in the first place. That was the first clue that they'd made a mistake amidst all of their hubris about being perfection. Somehow, it was disturbing instead of a comfort. If _they_ were wrong, what kept your side of the coin from being wrong as well? You were delving into unknowns and what-ifs of an ilk like you had never before, and it was unsettling to what of you was left to feel. Though, in the midst of it all and as childishly redundant as it was, you couldn't help but be even the tiniest bit proudly victorious for an admittedly stupid reason.

Resonating consequences notwithstanding, they'd been _wrong_. And that somehow meant more to you than winning.

* * *

Final Words: Not much to say here. I know it's in second person and that's relatively odd, but I've recently found myself liking writing in 2nd person as a style preference. It's considered a trickier POV to master, and I just like how it seems to flow easier for me. So 2nd person is here to stay. Anyway, hope you liked it!

R&R!

~SurreptitousFox


	2. Chapter 1

_**All Fall**_ **Down  
****By:** SurreptitiousFox245

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Elder Scrolls or Dragon Age. All rights go to their respective peoples.

**Quick Author's Note:** Sorry this took so long...I don't really have much of an excuse. I do want to clear one thing up before we begin, though - **_LYS IS NOT THE_ DRAGONBORN!** It will get explained in detail in the next chapter, but I wanted to establish that. Otherwise, if you have any questions about something I don't clear up enough, let me know and I'll try to answer them without giving anything away.

Enjoy!

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"_I'm stronger now, even after everything that you did._  
_I'm still alive and kicking._  
_I'm better now._  
_I'm awake now._  
_I can see everything in front of me, now._"

~Nonpoint "_Alive and Kicking_"

* * *

Chapter 1

* * *

**_Thedas - 9:30 Dragon_**

* * *

**The screech of birds** chirping directly in your ear had never sounded so melodic.

Within the inky blankness and minimal consciousness of which you had been awarded, darkness met you. Slowly, you began feeling small things – a feather-light touch skittering across your forearm, a cool moisture tingeing the air shallowly flowing into your lungs. Sounds began entering the forming picture of where you were located – leaves rustling upon bark and other leaves, bullfrogs croaking a mating ballad. A forest, the metallic scent of damp earth and moss clear, but a picture of it never formed. Even upon prying your eyes open, light was not met. Only darkness followed, and that was how you concluded bemusedly that you were blind. The distinct lack of supernatural _knowing_ you had grown accustomed to in the past year denoted that your hindrance went beyond being merely physical.

Disorientation was to be expected. It took several moments for you to realize that you were lying on earthen ground instead of leaning upon a rock or tree as you'd initially thought by the sharp point of a thick root digging into the middle of your back. The, admittedly, somewhat diluted vivaciousness of the birdcalls made you tentatively speculate that it was still at least slightly daylight, the bullfrogs furthering that to probably late afternoon or early evening. Sunset, you wanted to believe. Pushing the panic sprouting from the loss of one of your senses to the back of your mind, you focused instead on what you remembered last.

_You had sunk to your knees now – pride and propriety be _damned_, this was the end of the gods' forsaken world as you knew it – and the mountain around you began to crumble, piece by frozen piece._ The scene flashed before your still vivid mind's eye. The deafening roar of stone rolling across stone only to vanish into nothing seconds later, cheers as _they_ accomplished their goal. _Fading_, you remembered, when you shouldn't have faded at all. Perhaps your sight was recompense for still existing when you should've been _nothing_.

Or, maybe you were enough of _them_ to have been reabsorbed into whatever convoluted afterlife of which they thought they belonged. As humorously stupid as the idea was, you still allowed it to be entertained for a brief moment. Throwing aside that the area didn't have an inkling of the…_purity_, for lack of a better term, associated with Aetherial magic, the fact of the matter was plainly that you didn't know, and it frightened you. You could no longer See, in more ways than one, and that just drove the imaginary dagger deeper into the gooey, watery flesh of your now useless eye sockets.

"Damn," you breathed, dragging a hand through your hair once the appendage managed to blindly find the top of your head, an old habit mixed with fumbling effort that should not have been there. That frustrated you, too, and you whipped your head up and back against the ground with a _thwack!_ "Ow."

For how long you laid there, trying to decide what to do next, you didn't know. It could've been minutes, hours, or days; without the eternally viable passing of light, you didn't hazard to guess as lost in thought as you were. Eventually though, the sound of a bowstring slowly being pulled semi-taught made you wary enough to heave yourself into what you supposed could pass for a sitting position. As embarrassing as the scrabbling to ensure you didn't hit your head on anything was, you recognized the lack of choice as you pondered the sound you'd heard. It was slight, barely there. Had you not had mer blood in you and the acute hearing that wrought, you never would have registered it at all. The severity of the sound indicated heightened senses. Probably a trade off for your vision, you noted dully. No one ever said the Godhead didn't have a sense of mercy – or humor, as was more likely. It had always seemed to enjoy fiddling with you, and you somehow doubted the current excursion in which you found yourself was something as mundane as an _accidental displacement_. _It_ simply didn't _do _"accidents".

"_Accidentally-on-purpose_"…well now, _that_ was certainly more plausible.

A hand sliding to your belt reassured you that at least the glass dagger was still there. The magika thrumming beneath your fingertips, still potent, gave you confidence. "Who's there?" A pause ensued – brief, but lingering enough for it to register as suspicious.

"An elf who speaks in the common _shemlen_ tongue so close to a Dalish camp?" the voice, obviously male yet of a resonating lilt screaming something other than human, tersely scoffed after a moment. "I'd hazard to say you should be ashamed of yourself, but you've the look of no elf, Dalish or otherwise, native to these lands."

You rolled your useless eyes in their sockets, leering them somewhere off towards the left where you tracked the elf to whom the voice presumably belonged and gesturing to them sardonically, "Pardon my bluntness, but how would I know what an '_elf native to these lands_' looks like if I apparently don't look it, myself? Actually, I'm a bit lost. Could you tell me where I am?"

"You," the frown was palpable in the unnamed elf's tone, "are trespassing on the borders of a Dalish camp. I ask you to either state your business here or leave these woods. Your tone suggests you would be more at home with the _shemlen_ in one of the villages, anyway."

Well, _forest_ had only been slightly wrong, then. Barking a laugh, you turned your head skyward for emphasis, "Oh, trespassing! That's rich. Get thrown into…wherever in Oblivion I am, _blind_, and be rewarded with accusations of _trespassing _first thing upon arrival. That's rich, really. I give you accolades for utter ridiculousness." You heard light footsteps – lighter than light, actually, but you still heard them – padding their way towards you and reacted. Drawing the dagger, you held the blade tightly with your forearm in front of you defensively, hoping that you were pointing it in at least some semblance of the right direction. A flame cloak spell itched at your subconscious, begging to be cast, but you restrained only for the sneaking suspicion that it was probably not even necessary. There was something oddly comforting about the woods – safe. But where safety lurked, so did darkness; and you felt that distinctly, too. Caution would be used in moderation.

The steps stopped, but the voice spoke up again, "You aim well, at least...for a woman appearing as unseasoned as you do."

You scoffed at that, shrugging and momentarily wondering just where your weapon was pointing, "I'm not even going to _touch_ on how looks can be very deceiving. Moving on, I didn't mean to _trespass_, honest. One moment I was..._standing_ on a mountain, and the next, I'm waking up here..."

There was a pause, sigh, and eventually the shouldering (or, what you assumed by the slight rustle of cloth to be the shouldering) of a bow, "I should take you to the Keeper, then, if what you speak is true."

"That sounds wonderful!" The sarcasm was heavy, but so was the undertone of relief as you sheathed the dagger with thankfully little trouble and called the magic back to its reserves. "Um…hate to be a bother, but could you help a disoriented elf up? I'm kind of new to the whole _waking up without explanation in a very strange place_ thing…it's a bit dizzying. I haven't quite caught my bearings yet." The jolt of distaste for the pure dependence you felt the moment the slim hand clasped itself around your wrist, still enclosed in the tattered remains of thick leather bracers, was uncomfortable, but you reminded yourself that you didn't have a choice. You were in a place you did not recognize, stripped of your sight, both mundane and farther-reaching, and knew better than to expect anything less than a knife in the back at any given moment. You'd trust these elves (if that's even what they _were_ – meeting one of them and only being able to hear a strange accent only told you so much) merely because there was something telling you should - an intuition, perhaps.

You weren't sure whether or not you should've been unsettled by the fact that you didn't know if it was a side effect from your newfound blindness or another sick-minded gift of pity from _It_. Neither option was too appealing.

"Keeper Marethari is to be respected, outsider," drawled your nameless companion as he led you along across what you recognized by feel and sound as a branch-strewn path, "so mind your words."

You allowed an eyebrow to raise slowly, "Dully noted…uh...do you have a name, by any chance?" There wasn't a response from your escort. Somewhat insulted, you turned your gaze elsewhere (or maybe you turned it upon him, you couldn't tell) in defiance. Defiance of what, you didn't know. You'd figure something out to defy. Seemed to be all you were good for as of late, acts of contempt.

_Enough to show defiance,_ the memory spun itself, and you fought to keep your gait deceptively smooth, _If all you could further yourself to be for your withering cause was a symbol of hope, a flame, then so be it._ You suddenly felt sick. A symbol was all you had been, if you wished to be generous. You had done nothing. Watched, waited – you failed, and as a result, _so many had lost their very beings_…

"Pardon?" You snapped your head up (for what good the action did), and it took a few moments for it to sink in that you had been speaking the recalls aloud. And you didn't know why, let alone if it was remotely accurate, but you painted a proverbial mental picture of your companion in that instance. Short (a head shorter than your Altmeri height), lithe, fair haired, _human_ in all but the sharp, slim slope of the bridge of his nose and tipped ears still of a slimmer fashion than the arched ones you sported. Wide eyes bluer than blue shrouded by fine eyebrows sat elegantly on a pale, angular face (in human terms – it was not quite as sharply exotic as your own), one raised higher than the other in what could've passed for a subdued bewilderment.

The image in your mind, you didn't answer right away. In fact, you weren't quite sure if you could've even forced the lie out that was waiting on the tip of your tongue. No, you thought instead treacherously of the lives you had left stranded to their fate. That word, "_fate_". It left you tired, exhausted, and angry. _Fate_ had been malleable in your hands until the one moment when it had counted most. Then, your gifts had failed you, been stripped away, and laughed on. _Fate_ had been nothing but a cheap excuse masking the reality that you had been bringing about the inevitable, and it was only a calamity that you had taken so long to realize it.

"Nothing," you managed to whisper finally, staring off in a direction blankly, mind perceiving darkness where you _knew _there should've been _something_ and hoping that your guide would place your lack of visual contact as being distracted by your thoughts instead of sightlessness. "A memory - just a memory." The image in your mind of what your nameless companion looked like continued to stare with a curiosity burning behind his eyes, before deeming the matter too trifling to deal with and turned away to watch the path ahead. And his disregard was fine, you told yourself. It was absolutely fine.

* * *

**You knew it before **you set foot in this Dalish camp and could only _listen_ to its unfamiliar, foreign clamoring that the occasion would mark the first of many times you'd wish for your sight back, so you filed the feeling away for future reference on how to subdue it. There were the sounds of nature as you had felt before when you first woke, but somehow they seemed purer the farther you were led towards the center of the elvish establishment. Sparking of life fiercely celebrated, yet as potently revered and protected, danced wildly across your tongue with every breath you drew through lips parted in respectful awe. It filled your lungs with a confident security that almost made you momentarily forget your lost vision. Songs so beautiful they were terrible rang out intermittently, broken only by the distance put between their weaver and her mobile audience. The music spoke wordlessly and yet seamlessly of love, laughter, tears, and sorrow, among other things that had you wondering not for the first time if you really were not within the blissful, illusory confines of the Aetherial Dreamsleeve your kind had once so easily damned.

Ironically, it was the very loss of the one sensory input you so wished to have in inclusion that kept you attached so thoroughly to reality. You could feel the desire for it tugging harshly at your mind and soul, begging for you to circumvent the barriers and obstacles, something you consciously knew to be impossible in any event, to obtain the once-held power you also knew could give you what you yearned for so. Thankfully, logic kept you sane from the temptation; your reluctant, but no less chivalrous, guide kept your pride solid by unknowingly guiding you around physical obstacles; and your blindness kept you so, so, _so _blissfully grounded to the reality it could also easily lure you from.

"_Aneth ara, _Fenarel," a voice called out softly from the bustle of life surrounding the "camp". You could clearly hear the trepidation within the feminine lilt and instantly knew it was because of your presence. All of a sudden, the singing and merriment stopped in allowance for a sharp, pungent stench of fear, anger, and uncertainty to settle darkly over the camp, unexplained and utterly virulent.

A nod presumably came from your escort, if the rustling sound stood for anything, "_Andaran atish'an, _Merrill. Do you know where the Keeper is, by chance?" Your guide, Fenarel's, voice seemed almost stiff, a little _too_ polite when compared to the other elf, Merrill's, friendliness. Immediately, you tensed. Even though you didn't trust this Fenarel, his response to the female elf was a bit too on-edge for it to just be a general dislike. There was also an aura, though more of a suggestion than anything else, about her that you could feel even from where you stood presumably several feet away. It was magical, but it was tinged ever so slightly with darkness, desperation, _pride_. Danger, you realized - a threat in the making, something everyone around you seemed to also easily recognize and were quick to despise with every fiber of their collective being. It was unsettling.

To be honest, it reminded you of the lingering touch you tended to feel on someone fresh from visiting a Daedric shrine...and _not_ one of the more harmless of the Padomaic entities, either. It seemed akin to as if the soft-spoken girl had been near the shrine to Molag Bal in Markarth or within the confines of the fort housing Vaermina's artifact, Nightcaller Temple, overlooking Dawnstar. It was an essence of one fresh from the mountain-lifted altar protected by the ever-vigilant, four-armed statue of Mehrunes Dagon in all of his terrible, shameful glory. It was akin, but ever-so-slightly _different_, and something tugged at your mind to recognize that dissimilarity as the most significant aspect to the whole conundrum pertaining as to just where you were. It was not Daedric magic saturating the elf, running, shining powerfully through her veins and permeating the very soil upon which she stood, reaching tentative tendrils of potent, intangible flame out to touch the magika in your own blood, teasing, testing it, testing _you_. No, it wasn't quite _chaotic _enough to be Daedric. It felt closer to _Aedric_, but it wasn't even truly the orderly, hard-to-touch form of power, either. The one thing you were sure about, though, was that it was slowly, so _agonizingly_ _slowly_, being diseased by something you couldn't place, and it actually frightened you.

There was a stranglehold on the poor girl that threatened to overtake her, and it made you almost understand the seemingly unwarranted wariness of the others around you.

"She is with Ashalle," Merrill fretted, seemingly oblivious of the hostile atmosphere directed towards her, or perhaps she was just very good at ignoring it, "discussing something about M-Mahariel. Why do you need her? Is it about who you have with you? She seems rather strange to be Dalish. Is she from one of the cities? Oh, I've heard stories about the elves that live with the _shemlen_. Are any of them true?" Her soft voice broke at the utterance of the second name, though she continued to babble on almost endearingly. The already thick atmosphere seemed to dampen yet further with depression, and logic told you "_Mahariel_" was a touchy subject. A part of you wondered if Merrill had been the cause of whatever made the name so poisonous. It certainly explained why her own people seemed to hate her so much.

Fenarel's response wasn't just chilled; it was downright _cold_, and you frowned. Surely, whatever Merrill did was not cause for such unwarranted frigidity for asking a simple inquiry, regardless of the severity carried by whatever previous acts that caused the rest of the people around you to fear her so much. "Perhaps - I hardly see where it is _your_ concern."

"_Lethallin_, you don't mean that," said the girl confusedly - she'd been oblivious to the negative attention, then, "as the Keeper's First it's my responsibility to -"

The poor girl was cut off quickly, "You're _lucky_ the Keeper decided to allow you to stay with the Clan, and that is _all_. What you're planning on doing...it can't end well, Merrill, and you're disregard for everything the Keeper taught you, every respect she and the Clan paid you as her First, will be the downfall of us all _if you don't stop_." There was a whimper of a tone that told you it came from Merrill, and you snapped. You shuffled a step ahead, drawing yourself directly next to Fenarel instead of slightly behind and to his left as you had been, opening your mouth to fire off some comment that would probably get you cast out of the (begrudgingly) welcoming group of honest-to-Trinimac _civilized_ people as quickly as your life had been spared. It wasn't your place among these strangers to tell them what you thought of their ways (if what they were doing to the girl even was along such lines), but you also knew that you couldn't just stand by and watch when you could've yet done _something_...

... _enough to show that maybe – just _maybe_ – all was not as lost as it seemed in those last few seconds where _someone_ could yet do _something...

_Stone roaring across stone as the mountain around you began to crumble..._

_...when you had done nothing but stand and _watch_._

A gasp tearing itself from your throat drew the attention from Merrill to you, and you welcomed it, if you were to be honest with yourself. The memory finished playing once you stuffed it unceremoniously back into the recesses of your mind, though unfortunately not without bringing the soul-crushing _guilt_ with it that was becoming clearer and clearer still you had no hope of ever avoiding. At least, no hope of avoiding in entirety - if scattered moments of peace from the self-revile were all you would be able to manage for the rest of your pitiful existence then scattered moments you would take. _It was better than nothi - _

NO. You wouldn't - you _couldn't_...!

"Are you alright, child?" The voice was new, soothing, yet rougher-sounding and speaking of an age greater than those around you. But first and foremost, it was _unfamiliar_, and you reacted, drawing your dagger and spinning around wildly, untamed in both panic and instinct. You settled somewhere to your left, weapon held firmly and one of its sharp, decorated glass edges not quite touching the skin of a thin neck you in some way just _knew_ to be there. What came next was almost expected. Blades singing their deadly warning as they were swiftly sprung from their sheathes and bows drumming a countdown as arrow upon arrow was knocked, drawn, and pointed almost assuredly at your head. Your heart was clobbering around wildly in your chest, a rabid climber desperately trying to find a foothold on a smooth cliff face. It was warranted no such luxury and continued its race, causing you to feel dizzy and even more disoriented than before as the fright really began to grasp at you tightly.

Without your sight, it took you a bit longer than it normally would have to remember where you were. You took the slightest bit of familiarity you felt from the area around you, the presences of Fenarel and Merrill, memories of the terse conversation before, and latched onto them. Hanging from those shredded threads, you pushed your way past the instinctual reaction to _defend yourself_ against something you couldn't see, and unclenched the fist holding the dagger quicker than one could say "_disarm_". A clattering sound rose up, along with the alarming smell of dirt becoming ever-so-slightly stronger where the ground was disturbed, and you sucked in a shaky, welcome breath in an attempt to calm your fluttering heart. The recession of your adrenaline rush left you with subtle tremors that you willed yourself to ignore with practiced ease. It wasn't the first time you'd had to run on fear, and while you handled the crash well through experience, that didn't mean you had to like it.

"_Mara's mercy_," you breathed once your hand lowered itself back to your side, hoping that showing you didn't intend to make a move for your dropped dagger could somehow soothe the bristled fur of the clansmen, "I apologize for that. Did I hurt you?"

The aged voice almost held a chuckle to it, "I am unharmed. I could ask the same of you. You were unresponsive for several minutes."

Oh.

"I'm fine," you frowned. It had felt like it had only been a couple of _seconds_..."Just a...bad memory...I do apologize, again. I didn't hear you coming and just..._reacted_."

"I walked up in front of you, child. You would've seen me."

"I was lost in thought. I _didn't_ see you."

There was a long, thoughtful pause. By the time the old woman's voice spoke again, you were close to fidgeting, "You are blind." It was a statement, not a question. Your eyes flickered around uselessly in your nervousness, as if itching to prove the point you had tried so futilely to hide with their new nature of being perpetually unfocused. Then again, with being so new to sightlessness, you hadn't any experience with even functioning with such a disability, much less functioning flawlessly. It really had never been a question of _if_ someone would find out; it was more a question of _when_.

"Astute of you to realize...," you admitted unhappily.

"Keeper!" a voice from the crowd suddenly crowed in sputtering disbelief. So the woman was Marethari, then... "You can't honestly believe that she cannot see! She was a hair's breath away from slicing your neck!"

The pause that ensued spoke of nothing less than a horrifyingly stern look that made your own skin crawl as if it was directed at you, "I am quite sure, Ashalle. Just because you question my decisions ever since the incident with the Eluvian does not mean the sincerity I place behind them has wavered with your trust." That shut the woman who had spoken up rather quickly. You shifted on your feet awkwardly, having settled from your earlier panic attack as much as you supposed the situation would allow you to.

Coughing lightly in an attempt to vanquish your nervousness, you managed to stammer, "I, uh...I don't wish to be a bother. If you just point me to the nearest city, I can be out of your hair..." Hopefully, figures of speech carried over to...wherever you were...

"Nonsense," the grizzled voice of this Keeper woman warbled soothingly, "you are injured. The least we can do is aid you with your wounds and help you recover your bearings." Murmurs rose, mostly hostile, at the declaration. After Marethari's swift dismissal of Ashalle's protests, however, no one dared speak in more than a conspiratorial whisper that you couldn't help but overhear. Most of the words were hissed in an elegant, foreign tongue you thought mildly similar to Altmeris, but the almost reprimanding tones were hard to miss.

It was quickly giving you a headache...and an earache, come to think of it...

...wait...

"Injured...?" Your brows pinched together, brain only then registering the tingling ache of your burned wrists from the shackles you'd almost completely forgotten about. A cracked and bleeding rope burn along the left side of your neck was also beginning to make itself known from where the hemp _leash_ had been yanked against too harshly, and you cringed as the iron scent of your blood finally registered through the cacophony of sensory overload you had only barely managed to begin sifting through.

Damn the Divines; damn the Godhead; damn the Aldmer; and damn the bloody Thalmor.

The thick silence shook you out of your thoughts, and you swore you could feel Marethari and the rest of the gathered elves staring at you expectantly. You could stay and allow the people you didn't fully trust or understand to help you. After all, you were in a strange place and suddenly blind. Truth be told, you were half expecting to wake up at any moment and find that everything was just another fever-fueled dream, or realize it was an illusion placed upon you in order to get you to spill the secrets muddled within your mind that were so desperately coveted by your enemy. In that case, what was the harm in staying if it wasn't real?

On the other hand, if it wasn't a dream or the woven trickery of magic, how long could this new world, a shining gem of hope you hadn't let yourself feel in what felt like an eternity, last? Practically, if you had made it there after the dissolution of Nirn, you couldn't have been the only one. Your fears were merely caution if these potential others were not Thalmor; they were more than understatements if they indeed belonged to the Altmer-driven faction. If that was true, every moment you remained with the elves was another moment damning them to the fate you had narrowly escaped yourself. Maybe it had been luck, but you wouldn't let what happened to Nirn happen again. You couldn't.

But by the Gods, _you were bloody blind_...

"I...," you frowned apprehensively, "I suppose I don't really have another option, thank you..."

A warm hand gently clasped your bared right shoulder where the pauldron had been ripped away, and the impression conjured by your mind of a slim, grey-haired, elderly woman with a face decorated in intricate, swirling yellow lines smiled at you gently through thin lips and wide, kindly green eyes. The robes she wore were elegant and feathered, denoting rank, but the well-loved air evoked by frayed hemlines and the occasional mended tear also gave them, and their wearer, the respect demanded of age. Power also radiated off of her, you noted. It was much like what seeped from meek Merrill's bones, though without the oily shadow of the malicious sabre cat threatening to engulf it in despair. In fact, Marethari's power felt refreshing, if unfamiliar.

Marethari hummed as she led you gently away, dismissing the gathered crowd, Fenarel and Merrill included, "I do not believe we have had the luxury of a proper greeting. I am Keeper Marethari, though I suspect you gathered such." You managed a nod as the hand on your shoulder shifted. The image of Marethari faded from your mind, your concentration broken enough for your imagination to fade with the rise of conversation.

"Lys...my name is Lys." It wasn't the whole truth, you supposed, but it wasn't a lie. You weren't sure who to trust in earnest, and Lys was a nickname you often went by anyway.

She seemed almost taken aback for a moment, "What of your surname, child?" You didn't answer immediately. You just shook your head, gnawed on your chapped lower lip for a moment, and stared blankly ahead.

Floundering briefly, you finally sucked in a breath and answered sheepishly, "...Ralvayn." Sure, it didn't sound pretty...but it was appropriate. What was the use of your old name here? If others did follow you, it only made you more of a target. And it wasn't like _she_ needed it anymore.

Yes, _Ralvayn_ would do quite nicely...

* * *

Final Words: So, I apologize for anything sounding off or rushed. I was stuck on this for the longest time and I've been struggling through depression and insomnia lately. I meant to have this out months ago, but it just didn't happen that way. Sorry :(

Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed. I'm going to try to have the next chapter out soon enough, but I can't really promise anything.

You know the drill - R&R!  
~SurreptitiousFox


	3. Chapter 2

_**All Fall**__** Down**_**  
****By:** SurreptitiousFox245

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Elder Scrolls or Dragon Age. All rights go to their respective peoples. I do, however, own my OC, Lys Ralvayn, in all of her awesome glory. So eat it. :P

**Quick Author's Note:** I am really, really tired. I have not gotten much sleep the past few weeks. If I made any mistakes, you will have to forgive the oversight because I am fucking exhausted, pardon my French. The first part of the chapter is background on Lys. It isn't everything, not by a long shot. Her story prior to being sent to Thedas is going to be revealed slowly but surely. The second part is "real time", so to speak. Back at the Dalish camp, anyway.

Well, enjoy!

* * *

"_When everything is wrong and nothing feels right,_  
_and everyone has left, _  
_no one said goodbye - _  
_the days seem so lonely, and I've never been this scared._  
_And you were so strong... _  
_you touched with no hands._

_And all the days that we missed,_  
_gonna find where they've been._  
_I don't care if you love me, just say that I win._  
_And I'll try harder this time when I know that I'm right._  
_You hung up the phone the night that God saved my life._  
_And every new beginning comes from some other's end._  
_This four letter word, _  
_it's all I have left. _  
_It's all I have._"

~One Less Reason "_Four Letter Words_"

* * *

_**Chapter 2**_

* * *

**_~Nirn - 4E 201~_**

* * *

**Believe it or not, **you had always been a rather unremarkable elf before the whole fiasco with the Thalmor. Worse still, you'd been _penniless_ and unremarkable, and if you were honest, the penniless part stubbornly clung to you straight through to the end up on that damned mountain. Sure, you had a decent enough grasp of hunting and foraging. You'd had to survive _somehow_, and the forests along Cyrodiil's northeastern border were not as unforgiving as they appeared at first glance. The deceptive tranquility of Lake Arrius glinting under the twin moonlight had fooled you into security before, so you had mastered the art of constantly being alert as well. Magic, though a strong suit, had been considerably muddled by your being Altmeri. Considered to have an unnatural grasp of the arcane arts anyway by the other races and honestly being mediocre in the schools to your own rendered what could've set you apart by leaps and bounds to be categorized by that stupid little word you'd learned over time to be synonymous with _survival_.

In any other situation, you supposed it would be somewhat sad. Not in yours, though. A life of wandering and, when called for, poaching, as well as being a solitary female made you realize quickly that attention was the last thing you wanted to draw. Bandits, the errant escaped criminal, soldiers, guards, vigilantes, thieves - the list never truly ended, and you'd conditioned yourself to lay low from all. Fame and infamy never played out in your favor, either, so you kept as best you could to the wide unpopulated spaces of dense forests and barren grasslands. Recognition, acknowledgement, or what have you were always more troublesome than not.

You had been raised an orphan. Wherever your parents happened to be, or whoever they once were, had never been an answer able to be given. Your recovery was perhaps the most interesting aspect of you, truth be told. You'd been found, as the Acolyte who had primarily cared for you, Undilar, often liked to repeat, by a patrolling guardsman only a half hour east of Kvatch on the Gold Road. You had been nothing more than a hungry bundle screeching from amidst a tangle of flowers and weeds, tossed to the side of the road as if something to be ashamed of. It had only been several years after the Great War, and while not entirely a welcome presence, the Aldmeri Dominion had steady claim over the region. An abandoned, healthy child of High Elf blood was an oddity, but also considered a tentative commodity. Though selective when it came to breeding, Altmer children of unknown parentage were considered assets so long as they proved skilled enough. One had to be on par with the fabled Aldmer race to be considered a productive member of Altmeri society and accepted within the Dominion. It could be said that one had to be _remarkable_.

As you grew within the temple to Auri-el, once dedicated to Akatosh prior to Altmer occupation, you proved to be anything but noteworthy. Your magic was decent, but at a common level amongst your peers - it was nothing worth giving a second glance. Your scholarly pursuits were admittedly lackadaisical in retrospect to what the Acolytes had attempted to teach you. The reigning Thalmor Emissary over the area, a stuffy, oily old man by the name of Anariil, had shown a particular frown of distaste when scouting for potential recruits to the over-glorified supremacist faction. Even as a child and being fed a steady stream of beliefs negative towards humans, other mer, and the beast races, you had never really believed in the harsh treatment and instead found a shimmering fascination on the subject. Something about having these negative views shoved on you and having never had contact with the races in question sparked your natural curiosity to find out exactly _why_ they were held in the first place. That view had only been strengthened as you entered your teenage years.

So when the slippery, gray haired Altmer had stared down his beak-like nose at _you_ out of twenty or so other orphaned children with a knee-buckling gaze and asked why the Empire had surrendered to the Dominion in the war, you'd very innocently answered, "Because the Dominion was being an ass and didn't give them a choice...or a chance."

Needless to say, that answer hadn't gone over well. Not that any answer straying even remotely from bathing the Dominion in gilded righteousness and the Empire as mewling worms writhing in inferiority _would've_, in retrospect. The Emissary had gone a shade of angry red, mixing with the natural yellow tone of his gilt skin to create an amusingly vibrant orange that looked rather out of place with his dull yellow eyes and lank, cinereal hair. The Acolytes around the room had gasped in shock, growing pale and flustered while stammering abhorred apologies that one of their students had even dared give such a scandalous answer in blunt and vulgar terms. You could've sworn that one of the elder females had fainted where she was seated in the back of the room. Had you more brains at the tender age of fifteen, you might have just kept yourself silent for the duration of the inevitable tongue-lashing.

No, instead you'd giggled at the spectacle the man was making of himself.

Correction - you'd giggled _uncontrollably_.

The following morning, you had been predictably kicked out of the temple and left to fend for yourself. Such disrespect towards a figure of power was not to be tolerated under any circumstances, by anyone, and the message had been made resoundingly clear with your excommunication. Undilar, a middle-aged mer with questionable mousey colored hair always secured in the topknot typical of a servant of Auri-el, had expectedly been the only one to see you off. He'd seemed solemn as his thin, bony hands - scholar's hands that had fed, clothed, and taught you - conspiratorially handed you a small bundle of provisions. It wasn't much, barely enough to survive a few days comfortably. You remember an eyebrow rising at that. Smuggled food, was it? Still, the sentiment had touched you.

You had kept the cloth that had bound the bread, apples, and potions for some time, actually.

With a roguish grin to hide your apprehension, you promised to a disheartened face you wouldn't get into too much trouble. Sans a childish look of amusement towards Anariil when you passed him on the road you couldn't resist and the ensuing, angered chase, it was a relatively easy promise for you to keep considering your humdrum nature for the next seven years. Learning to survive had been rather solitary, with a string of days here and there broken up by a hunter requiring aid tracking big game or an alchemist searching for herbs that had taken pity on your lack of ability and taught you a few essentials before moving on. It was mundane, but it was comfortable - liberating, even, from the temple's expectant structure, if one wished to go so far.

At least, it had been up until the chilly autumnal day you found yourself a little farther north of your usual hunting grounds than you'd intended. The quickly settling chill had warned you of a harsh winter to come, and so you had decided that the risks of going farther north to hunt more were worth it over potentially starving _and_ freezing to death. Walking into an ambush hadn't been on your "to-do" list that Morndas, but you had to give credit to the Imperials who had done the ambushing - it was skillfully and _silently_ carried out. You'd been knocked out, loaded onto a wagon with three other Nords, and carted north towards what would probably be your execution.

Initially, you hadn't been frightened - just curious. Due to your time in the woods around Cheydinhal, you had had your fair share of encounters with humans, and the ravenous childhood yearning for knowledge had stemmed to a dull thirst. And you had come to accept your death as inevitable anyway the minute you had taken to your nomadic lifestyle. Only a hardheaded fool would believe themselves invincible enough to survive such dangers forever, and a hardheaded fool you were not. You just had never pictured it would end with you as a falsely accused war prisoner.

Upon waking, the more chatty man across from you had managed to fill you in on the details. Secluded as you had been, you hadn't a clue that there had been a rebellion brewing against the Empire in Skyrim until it had almost literally fallen on top of you. The man, stocky and blond, obviously a warrior, and answering to the name of Ralof was a soldier in the rebellion. The man next to you, brunette, oddly gagged, and dressed in fine, if not slightly dusty, furs was none other than Ulfric Stormcloak, said rebellion's leader. The sniveling, cowardly fool adjacent to you was another unfortunate bystander to the whole thing, a horse thief named Lokir who had, like yourself, been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

It was several nights later, a day from the hamlet you'd learned to be your destination that you managed to slip out unnoticed. The soldiers had made camp, and after a failed attempt by a handful of unmarked Nordic soldiers at liberating the imprisoned rebels, you'd been separated from the rest as each of you was questioned individually. That had been the Legionnaires' first mistake. The second had been leaning you against a tree while they attempted to figure out who had organized the attack. Severing the thick leather bonds hadn't exactly been easy, but with the cover provided by feigning sleep and a nimbleness acquired from years hunting game partial to tight crevices, you had managed and slipped off into the frigid wilderness before the Imperials had been any the wiser.

They had taken the patchwork armor of mildly tanned hides and furs and left you in thin roughspun clothing that did little to protect against Skyrim's native chill. Your second-rate bow, arrows, and daggers had also been confiscated, leaving you to rely on your magic for both defense and warmth if you wished to survive in an environment even harsher than what you were used to. Somehow you'd managed, sticking to roads and looting from a few bandits stupid enough to cross your path. The fur armor you'd taken from one hadn't been as tailored as your own had been, but was certainly warmer than the tattered clothing you'd been forced into. The plain longbow and handful of shoddy iron arrows you'd also managed to salvage provided you with a more reliable means to hunt, but as you'd stumbled across Morthal and had to be helped to the town's wizard to be treated for frostbite and magika exhaustion, you rationalized that perhaps returning to your nomadic lifestyle was not the best choice. At least it wasn't a good one until you could either get used to the cold or procure better, thicker armor and more potent restoration potions.

Alas, the decision whether or not to stay hadn't rested with you in the end, so your three days spent pondering the decision at the inn and the coin spent there had really been useless. A tall, stocky Nord man in a plain brown tunic had approached you, claiming to be the Jarl's steward. He'd seemed kind enough, if a bit haggard. What you'd heard about the civil war made the exhaustion brewing in his eyes entirely understandable - it hadn't been easy on anyone in the province. They were damned for supporting the Imperials, and cursed if they backed the Stormcloaks. And the situation in Whiterun was quickly showing that neutrality wouldn't get anyone anywhere, either.

You'd followed Aslfur out of civility when he'd mentioned that Jarl Idgrod wished an audience with you. Morthal wasn't a particularly large town, even though it was a Hold capital. In actuality, it was more a village than a proper city, and you were an anonymous newcomer of a race the people in Skyrim were understandably wary of to begin with. You'd expected the Jarl would want to question you at some point and so far hadn't been disappointed, until the grizzled old woman had looked you point blank in the eye first thing and, without preamble, asked you if you would like a job.

It had been a shock, certainly. You were left standing in the blissful warmth of the longhouse, dripping from the freezing rain drumming away outside and gaping like a fish for several moments before you managed to gather yourself and ask just what this "_job_" would entail. You were still healing from the frostbite, though Falion's spells and poultices had helped considerably. You weren't in a condition to be fulfilling bounties or any of the requests to take care of bandits or other nuisances this Jarl could possible conjure. There was something about the woman that had put you on edge, a tingle of _knowing_ behind her dark squinted eyes that was disquieting. Like she could bore into your soul and poke around every little embarrassing secret you had stuffed away. Skeletons laid bare for judgment to be passed.

A stiff moment of silence trudged along before the old woman's lips twitched up into a smirk of victory, as if she'd found what she'd been looking for, and your heart dropped into your stomach, "The war is creeping up on our borders. My _husband_ believes I would benefit from an advisor of a sharp mind and versed in the arcane. From what Falion has told me, you are both. I am hereby offering the position to you." The word "_husband_" had been emphasized by an amused pause, as if to convey that the word did not indicate the person it was supposed to. Somehow, you hadn't been able to help mentally replacing it with "_I_". A chill raced down your spine unbidden. And "_versed in the arcane_"? By Falion? You sourly recalled the hooded Imperial snidely railing at your inability to use a flame spell to evenly distribute heat. Your protests that Destruction magic had never been your strongest school had fallen on selectively deaf ears.

"Am I able to refuse?" Your tone was tentative, but dry. You already knew the answer. No vocalization was needed as the smirk reappeared, followed by a slow, lazy blink as if to convey the words, "_Look at your position - what do you think?_" Two guards were standing stoically at the doors, three placed disproportionately, yet tactfully, around the room (escape should you decide to run was all but impossible), and a Legionnaire hovered in the doorway to the left all but giving you a death glare. He obviously knew who you were and what you'd escaped. From his angry stance, he had been ready to arrest you. It was then you realized the Jarl was trying to keep you from recapture by making you a servant bound to her household, though you couldn't fathom why. It was probably more complicated than your proverbial pay grade. Your sigh was melancholy.

Bowing your head in respect you weren't quite sure you really felt, you acquiesced gracefully, "I am humbled, my Jarl, and accept." Though there had been many teachings from the temple that you had easily discarded, the etiquette had been a habit you had never quite been able to shake. Polite as you were being, though, you certainly didn't have to like the situation you now found yourself in.

Still, as you slowly raised your head and eyed your new advisee, you couldn't repress the shiver at the spark quickly and alarmingly becoming familiar. You felt the urge to bolt as the hair on the back of your neck stood on end and another shiver wracked your frame. Ground held dutifully, your teeth grit themselves together. You recognized the favor being given, but you somehow felt that while it was advisor-advisee officially, the roles were going to be reversed in practice. Because as you glowered against a cool scrutiny, you had a feeling that Idgrod Ravencrone knew more than she was letting on. And you also had an inkling that the knowledge had far too much to do with you than you cared for.

* * *

**_~Thedas - 9:30 Dragon~_**

* * *

**You noted that you were by a fire**. The roaring warmth engulfed you, and it wasn't until you were nestled comfortably next to the flames that you realized you'd even been chilled at all. It was appropriate. You'd been on top of a mountain before waking, clad in tattered armor atop an even more rugged, threadbare tunic and trousers you'd scrounged up from...somewhere. The exact specifics of where you'd salvaged the cloth and hide eluded you, lost in the rushed fog of a war waged perhaps too late. It was all piecemeal, you were sure; remnants from darting cross-continent - fort to sanctuary to village, just trying to stay alive. How exactly had you gone from a Jarl's advisor to skulking about and coveting half-decayed, albeit usable, armor as if it were gold? As you sat there comfortably nursing a bowl of mercifully savory, gamey stew (probably rabbit), you figured it didn't matter any longer. What was done was done and you couldn't change it.

The warmth reminded you of the day you'd been offered the job, however. Truth be told, it wasn't much different. Outside instead of in a longhouse, gently chilled instead of frozen and frostbitten - you were sightless this time. There was still a...perhaps not _grizzled_, per se, but there was an experienced elder across from you with a proposition, power draped languidly across her shoulders as if a cloak and knowledge burning her eyes. The nature of the knowledge may have been different, but knowledge was still power regardless of make. The conditions were even vaguely similar - stay, join the clan of elves and work comfortably to grow accustomed to your new disadvantage (blindness instead of susceptibility to cold), or leave and fend for yourself in the elements, in a land foreign to you. And once more, it sounded as though you were not being given much of a choice to begin with.

You spooned another chunk of tender, gravy-covered meat onto your tongue, sucking and gnawing on it to prolong the thoughtful silence that had fallen. Though you couldn't see Marethari, you could feel her gaze piercing you expectantly. She wanted a story you were reluctant to share. It sounded outlandish as it was, but while you trusted her and the Dalish to some extent, you didn't trust them with the truth. At least not yet.

Swallowing your delaying morsel of stew, you waved the hand holding the wooden spoon around for emphasis, "I think you already know my answer, Keeper. I don't know where I am or how I came to be here. I woke up _blind, _for Arkay's sake. Staying with the Sabrae clan is the most logical course of action, and I thank your hospitality for graciously suggesting and allowing that I stay." Marethari seemed to smile gently at that, though without visual confirmation, you couldn't begin to tell for certain.

"It is no trouble, child," she brushed the matter off as if the clan accepted outsiders every day of the week and twice on Sundas. "Two of our own passed away recently, Dread Wolf never find them. As much as I would like my generosity to be plain, we require someone to aid in picking up the slack they left."

"I can't promise I'll be the most useful, but I will try to help where I am able," you shrugged, scraping the spoon along the wooden bottom of the bowl in your lap in search of any extra broth once you realized you'd emptied it.

Marethari's nod shifted the air, "I mean to speak with you on the subject. Even blind, your reflexes are impressive. One would think you could see perfectly well, if perhaps they didn't focus on your eyes. Were you a warrior before coming here?" She was testing the waters, trying to ascertain which subjects about your past were safe to broach and which were not.

You grinned in a way you hoped reassured the clan leader that you were not offended by the inquiry, "I am an orphan. I was raised at a temple until I was fifteen. Then I was left to fend for myself - learning to hunt and move swiftly and accurately became necessity. I'm good with a dagger, sure, but I prefer using a bow when I can...well...preferred. I don't think I'd be much use with one now."

"Speaking of," your companion started as cool metal was pressed into your left hand, unoccupied since you finished your meal, "your dagger was retrieved. I had our craftsmaster sharpen it. It is of an unusual make. I've never seen glass tempered in such an effective manner, and neither has Ilen." Your spine stiffened slightly, but you tried to play it off as trying to pop the stiffness out of the joints perhaps a moment too late. How to explain, how to explain...

Regardless, you sheathed the weapon gratefully, "Thank you. I believe I found it in an abandoned fortress some time ago...or...was it a cave? Pardon me, I can't quite remember."

"If you don't wish to speak of it, child, all you have to do is say." The observation was harmless, but it told you enough. Marethari had noticed the ice woven into the last sentence, then.

You scoffed lightly, eyes rolling uselessly in habit. "Alright, alright. You don't have to worry the feathers off your coat, Keeper." As always, irritation loosed your tongue quite horribly. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you registered being taken aback by your suddenly casual tone with someone not only obviously ranks above you, but who had also showed you kindness when she very well could've left you to rot. You ignored it. Sometimes politeness got you nowhere.

However, you began kicking yourself once more when the woman spoke almost apprehensively, "You know my robes are feathered, child?"

"Uh...no?" Voice wavering of its own accord, you started trying to put the pieces together in whatever way they could be smashed to fit. Had you actually seen an image of Marethari and Fenarel, or had you just happened to get the feathered part right? Past events had taught you never to believe in coincidences, but if you had, then _why_? What had caused it? You'd been stripped of Sight, hadn't you?

"Don't lie to me," the words held no scorn, only absentminded, if not a little grim, awe. "How? You haven't even so much as touched them and no one murmured it."

You shifted awkwardly again, feeling like a scolded child, "I...I had an image flash into my head when you were leading me away... It was an older woman. An elf, though she looked more human than I do. White hair pulled back into a bun, green eyes, yellow tattoos on her face, and a well-worn coat with dark feathers on the shoulders...please don't tell me that I just described you..." You felt like cringing when there was a grim response telling you that you had.

The gaze was boring into you, "Has this happened any other time before or since? If so, what were you doing when it happened?"

"With Fenarel. When he helped me up..."

Marethari paused for a moment, "He touched your hand?"

You nodded, holding up the offending right appendage, "My wrist, actually."

"Where the armor is frayed?"

"Yes."

Another thoughtful, pregnant silence swelled, filled only by the crackling of burning sticks from the blaze to your left. Where the Keeper was silent, your mind was racing. Your wrist and your shoulder...what could it mean? Did you really have your sight back for a moment? If so, then...your heart leaped. No. Best not get your hopes up only to have them dashed, but if there was even the slightest possibility...

Suddenly, a warm, slim hand engulfed your own and unwound the bandages you had clumsily insisted on wrapping over the tender electricity burns. You hissed momentarily at the sting of cloth being ripped away from frail flesh, but the pain was only at the forefront of your mind for a moment. By the thick leather of the bracer still attached to your left wrist, your bared hand was eased to touch the dry dirt beneath the thick log you were sitting upon. Your eyes went wide as saucers.

"Kynareth..."

Colors of awe flooded your mind, sensations, sounds, music, essences of life and energy. Pictures danced restlessly before you, their mere presence sweeter than any of the honeyed meads you'd enjoyed back in Skyrim. You were floored, completely astounded and for once, you didn't much care for who saw the perfect rendition of a fish your jaw was doing. Propriety be damned - you were witnessing a _miracle_. And it was all for one simple reason that really wasn't so simple at all.

You could see. For the first time since your world had been upended, you could see _everything_.

* * *

Final Words: Hope you liked it. This is kind of a background story on Lys. It's not everything, but it explains how she deviates from being Dragonborn and her upbringing, a little bit.

Well, you know the drill. R&R!  
~SurreptitiousFox


End file.
